‘It was Haiden!’
Of course it was. ‘But we can’t prove that. And if we’ve no proof, we can’t arrest her.’
King’s bottom lip pinched like a five-year-old told he wasn’t allowed any more biscuits. ‘Could’ve arrested her on suspicion.’
Steel poked her head through, between the seats. ‘Pin your lugholes in the upright and locked position, Kingy: you – can’t – arrest – victims – of domestic – violence – for being – controlled – by their – abuser. Poor cow was terrified.’
‘I’m not telling you again! We wouldn’t be in this position if it wasn’t for you.’ He turned to Logan. ‘We get an SE team and we swab her house for DNA. That’ll prove Haiden was there.’
Surely a DI should be brighter than that?
Logan did his best not to sound as if he was explaining it to that biscuit-less five-year-old. ‘Her lawyer will claim contact cross-contamination from when she visited him in prison.’
‘Then fingerprints!’
‘He’s her boyfriend. He visited her before he went into prison.’
‘What, and they’re still there three years later? She hasn’t cleaned since then?’
‘Hoy!’ Steel poked him. ‘She’s a woman so she’s got to be a house-proud wee mouse, does she? Cleaning and polishing for some man?’
Logan scowled at Steel in the rear-view mirror. ‘You would be really wise to stop talking right now. You’re in enough trouble as it is.’ He reached out and clicked on the radio and some bland happy-clappy pop tune jingled out of the speakers. ‘Can we please sit in silence till we get back to the station?’
Steel thudded into her seat, face creased, arms folded. ‘Fine.’
King turned to face the passenger window. ‘Perfect.’
Logan just sighed.
A floor polisher made dubstep noises in the corridor outside DCI Hardie’s office.
Still no sign of the man himself. Probably dragging it out, leaving Logan and King to stew in the juice of their own failure and await the coming bollocking.
King brushed a clump of dried dirt from his trouser leg. The pale beige lump burst as it hit the carpet tiles, turning to dust. He picked at another bit, not looking at Logan. ‘What’s going to happen to her?’
Good question.
‘Disciplinary hearing. If she’s lucky, she’ll get off with a suspension. If not? Demotion, fine, maybe fired. If Professor Wilson dies, definitely fired. And maybe prosecuted.’
King nodded. Then scooted his chair closer to Logan’s, keeping his voice down. ‘Can’t you just … you know?’
Logan stared at him. ‘No. I can’t just “you know”.’ Honestly … ‘Doesn’t matter how much I want to: if I do it for her – if I bend the rules for friends – I’m compromised. Can’t be trusted. I undermine the whole system.’
Silence as King frowned at the rear of Hardie’s monitor. Then a sigh. ‘Yeah, you’re probably right. But—’
‘And why do you care all of a sudden? You’ve done nothing but moan about her since this started.’
‘I know, but—’
The office door banged open and DCI Hardie stormed into the room. Face: red and sweaty. Shirt: stained down the back and under the arms. Eyebrows: furrowed. Teeth: bared. ‘What the hell were you thinking?’
King sat up straight. ‘It wasn’t—’
‘Letting Haiden Lochhead get away! Have you any idea what the media are going to do to us when they find out? Pineapples! Great big sodding pineapples!’ He threw himself into his chair, the impact sending him and it trundling away, till they clunked into the wall. ‘The Chief Superintendent isn’t pleased. And when the man in charge of the whole bastarding division isn’t pleased, I am not pleased. Because he seems to think your screw-up counts as my screw-up!’ Spittle flying. ‘AND I DO NOT SCREW-UP!’ Glaring at them, eyes bulging in his flushed shiny face.
Logan cleared his throat. ‘Maybe we should all take a deep breath and—’
‘Don’t interrupt me when I’m bollocking you!’ Hardie slammed a hand down on the desk. ‘Of all the half-arsed, incompetent, piss-poor excuses for police officers; you should’ve waited for backup!’
King pulled his chin up. ‘With respect, Boss, we didn’t have a choice. We had to move in when we did. I was watching the front of Mhari Powell’s house when I saw Haiden Lochhead look out of the window and spot us. Ellon had pulled our patrol car off on another job, the OSU was an hour and a half away. If we’d waited, he’d have been long gone.’
You what?
Logan stared at him. Lying little sod. Well, lying big sod, but it was still a lie.
Hardie harrumphed, a bit of the fire fading from his cheeks. ‘He’s long gone now.’
‘Yes. But at least we tried.’ King nodded, agreeing with himself. ‘We couldn’t sit there and do nothing because we didn’t have backup. Would you?’
The fire died, letting the steam leak out of Hardie in a slow disappointed hiss. He sagged in his chair. Rubbed a hand across his eyes. ‘You’re right, you’re right. I’m sorry.’ A big sigh. ‘It’s not going to make tomorrow’s media briefing any easier, though. The press will spin it as a disaster and Edward Bloody Barwell will drop his bomb.’
King deflated too. ‘Then my career’s over anyway.’
Probably.
Hardie checked his watch, chewed on his lip for a bit. ‘It’s well past quitting time.’ He pointed at Logan. ‘Open the third drawer down, would you? “Historic Analysis of Traffic Offences 1985 to 1993”.’
OK. Not entirely sure what double parking and driving without due care and attention had to do with Professor Wilson and Haiden Lochhead, but probably best to play along in case Hardie was still flammable.
Logan rattled open the filing cabinet drawer. Instead of hanging files, there was a cardboard box, about the size of the ones printer paper came in. He lifted it out and stuck it on the desk.
Hardie opened it, pulling out three crystal tumblers and a decanter half-full of amber liquid. He poured a stiff measure into one of the glasses and handed it to King. Then did the same for Logan. ‘We’ll issue the statement at the start of the briefing: get Jane to put a hard positive spin on it. Play up how you almost caught Haiden Lochhead today.’ Hardie poured himself one and pointed it at King. ‘You got into a scuffle with Lochhead, right?’
‘Scuffle?’
‘The scrapes and dirt. You tackled him, but he escaped?’
King brushed away another clump of pale beige. ‘Went hammering around a corner, slipped on a pile of lawn clippings, and collided with someone’s fence. Then the ground. Think they’d been out with the hose earlier.’
Hardie’s face fell an inch. ‘Oh …’ He shrugged and raised his glass. ‘Jane will still be able to spin it. Slàinte mhath!’
King raised his. ‘Slàinte mhòr!’
Ah well, might as well join in.
Logan held his up too. ‘L’chaim.’
They clinked glasses, then King and Hardie took massive swigs while Logan barely sipped at his. A warm smoky wash of peat grabbed at his tongue, making the edges tingle and numb. Like drinking oak-aged Novocaine.
They both frowned at him. Probably wondering why he hadn’t scoofed half the glass, like they had.
‘Driving.’
Hardie shook his head. ‘Leave the car here. We’ll make a night of it. About time we did some team building!’
Yeah …
King whacked back the last of his whisky and raised the empty glass. ‘I’ll drink to that.’
Music blared through the open toilet door, loud and clear, then fading to a muffled thump-and-grind as the door bumped shut again. The sharp rancid-vinegar of a pub gents’ mingling with the weird artificial-mango scent spritzing out of the air freshener mounted on the wall.
Logan’s knees weren’t working at full strength for some reason, making him wobble a bit as he directed the stream of wee after a lump of someone’s discarded chewing gum – chasing it up and down the trough.
‘Nope.’
The chewing gum performed a little pirouette and headed off the other way. Slippery customer.
‘That’s the trouble … with being an inspector, isn’t it? When you’re … you’re a constable, you’re one of the gang. When … you’re a sergeant, you’re the buffer between the dicks in charge and the constables, so everyone likes you.’ His voice drooped like a sad willy. ‘Then you get promoted and … and suddenly you’re one of the dicks in charge.’
‘Yup.’
The chewing gum drifted to a halt – no more pee to push it.
Logan gave PC Naughty a shake and tucked him away again. Did his zip up and stiff-legged over to the sinks. No funny business, knees!
Now wash your hands.
King’s back was reflected in the graffiti-scrawled mirror: broad shoulders and that thick mane of hair. Like he was in a commercial, or a cop show, or something. ‘And it … it wouldn’t be so bad, if it was … like the TV, or the books, and …’ belch number three, ‘and you got to go running about interviewing people and cracking cases, but it’s … it’s ninety percent paperwork and bloody meetings!’ A lurching two-step to the left, quickly rectified. ‘Briefings. Debriefings. Status reports. Stragety … I mean, strategy focus groups. Statistics …’
Logan rinsed the soap off his hands. Took care over the words, in case they got a bit squished by all that lager and the whiskies. ‘You lied to Hardie.’
‘Did I?’
‘You didn’t see Haiden in the window.’
‘Yes I did.’
He flicked water off his hands and onto the brown tiles. ‘Steel knocked on Mhari Powell’s door, because … because she has the impulse control of … a six-month-old Labrador. Not because Haiden Lochhead appeared.’
King shoogled his bum from side to side, probably finishing up. Sounding genuinely puzzled: ‘You would rather … you rather I landed her in it?’
‘I’m not saying that.’ He crossed to the hand dryer – a motion sensor setting it roaring.
‘Then what …’ King raised his voice over the blower. ‘Then what’s the problem? She screwed … screwed up. Everybody screws up sometimes. God knows … know I have. We all have! But … but we deserve a second chance, don’t we?’
‘That’s not the point.’
‘It doesn’t matter now. Far as Hardie’s concerned: I saw Haiden, we went after him.’
It doesn’t matter?
‘He – got – away.’
King zipped himself up. ‘And we’re going to have to live with that.’
‘Yes.’ Logan wiped his hands dry on his trousers and headed for the door. ‘The problem is: Professor Wilson probably won’t.’
— dead letters and abandoned mail —
22
The voice belted out at full volume: ‘Fit like, loons and quines? It’s six o’clock, which means you’re listening to OMG it’s Early!, with me, Rachel Gray. Glad you could join us.’
Gnnn …
Logan forced his eyes open, and blearied at the ceiling, one hand searching for the bloody alarm-clock-radio.
‘It’s going to be another scorcher out there, so let’s get in the spirit with some Alicia Lewis, and “Summer’s Ashes”.’
Tara reached across the bed and hit him, voice mushy and sour. ‘Make it stop!’
‘Take it away, Alicia!’
‘Trying …’ Where the hell was the button?
A horribly cheery hand-clap-and-guitar thing bounced out of the speaker.
She hit him again. ‘Makeitstop, makeitstop, makeitstop!’
‘Baby, can’t you see it’s you and me, and we’re burning?
It’s time we—’
His finger found the button and blessed silence rolled back into the bedroom.
Oh God …
Logan slumped. Groaned. Rubbed at his face. Ground the grit out of his eyes.
Six in the sodding morning.
It felt as if someone had emptied a bin bag into his mouth and then set fire to it. The pounding in his head matching time with the lurching of his stomach.
Who the hell thought flaming Drambuies were a good idea at one in the morning?
He struggled his way out of bed and stood there, drooping, scarred and slightly out of focus in the bedroom mirror.
His reflection grimaced back at him. ‘I hate mornings …’
Logan fastened the epaulettes to his T-shirt’s shoulders on the way to the front door, then bent down and rubbed Cthulhu’s head as she wound herself around his legs. Probably leaving a trail of grey and brown on his itchy police-issue trousers.
Still, at least the rest of him was clean.
She gave an extra loud purr as he got to her ears.
‘Better be nice to Aunty Tara today, she’s in a grump. And be nice to Daddy when he gets home too – it’s going to be one of those days, if—’
His phone launched into its generic ringtone and when he pulled it out the words ‘SUPT. BEVAN’ loomed in the middle of the screen. Great. Because that was bound to be good news.
Logan groaned, then answered it. Doing his best to sound happy to hear from her. ‘Boss, I’m on my way in. You need anything?’
Her New Zealand accent was slightly cooler than usual. ‘I do indeed, Logan. You, in my office. Please.’
Yeah, that didn’t sound good. He stepped out of the front door. ‘Be right there. Call it fifteen minutes if the traffic’s …’
Buggering hedgehogs of doom.
Not even twenty to seven yet, and the driveway was flooded with sunlight, dappling its way through the trees to make leopardskin patterns on the lock block. Birds singing like sarcastic bastards in the trees. Mocking the big empty space where his Audi should have been. But wasn’t. Because he’d left it at Divisional Headquarters last night.
Wonderful.
A strange cat sashayed along the top of the garden wall, as if it was wearing high heels.
He’d have to either get a bus into town, or wake Tara up and plead for a lift.
Oh, she was going to love that.
‘Logan?’
‘Sorry, Super, better make that half an hour.’
‘I see.’ A pause. ‘And when you come in, remind me to discuss your timekeeping as well.’ She hung up.
‘Urgh …’ He bent backwards, wincing up at the bright blue sky. ‘I really hate mornings.’
Right, just had to hope that Superintendent Bevan was ‘morally flexible’ when it came to accepting caffeine-based kickbacks. Logan shifted both wax-paper cups of coffee into one hand and knocked on her door.
‘Come in?’
He did, closing it behind him and placing one of the cups on her desk. ‘Got you a latte, by way of an apology.’
‘Punctuality matters, Logan.’ She peeled back the plastic lid and peered inside. ‘The shift starts at seven, and if you can’t … Ooh, are those sprinkles?’
‘And marshmallows.’ He lowered himself into one of her visitors’ chairs. ‘You wanted to speak to me?’
‘We don’t approve of bribery in Professional Standards.’ Bevan took a sip. Smiled. ‘But I’ll make an exception this time.’ She pointed at a copy of the Scottish Daily Post, sitting next to her in-tray. ‘Did you see the papers this morning?’
OK …
‘Not yet. Why?’
‘Still nothing about DI King’s past.’
‘Really?’ He helped himself to her copy, flicking through it. Sex scandals, embezzlement, some footballer’s drink-and-drugs shame, a banker caught with an underage girl, a politician caught lying – as if that was even news these days. But Bevan was right. Not so much as a whiff of King. ‘That’ll change. DCI Hardie’s putting out the press
release about it at the briefing today.’
Little wrinkles marred her forehead. ‘Ah …’
‘Put it this way: the story’s a landmine. We don’t know when we’re going to step on it, but sooner or later we will. With any luck, a controlled explosion will put the damn thing out of commission.’
‘The thing is – and I don’t mean to cast aspersions here – but it might have been better if you hadn’t let Haiden Lochhead get away.’
‘We didn’t “let” him anything. They pulled our backup and he did a runner. It was bad luck.’
The wrinkles deepened. ‘I’m sure Professor Wilson will think so.’
‘Yes, I said that.’
‘And Detective Inspector King?’
Good question.
‘I genuinely think he’s doing his best.’ A shrug. ‘He can be a little preoccupied with his marriage breaking up, but his work doesn’t seem to be suffering for it.’
‘And yet …?’
‘You know what the job’s like. It’s a pressure cooker full of raw sewage on cases like this.’
She smiled. ‘This another one of your landmine metaphors?’
‘Technically it’s more of a simile.’ Logan returned her newspaper. ‘Does he have a history of anything … worrying on his service record that I don’t know about? Something not in his official file?’
‘Such as?’
‘Something I should be looking out for, so I don’t end up going down with the ship.’
The smile twitched. ‘Landmines, pressure cookers, and shipwrecks. Chief Superintendent Doig never said you were such a clichémonger.’ Bevan went in for a slurp of latte, giving herself a small creamy moustache in the process. ‘I believe you when you say DI King’s a good man, Logan. It’s not his fault life’s handed him this particular basket of ticking time bombs.’ She shook her head. ‘You’ve got me doing it now.’
Logan shifted in his seat. ‘So, I’m putting my career on the line because …?’
‘Keep me informed, Logan. I want this one to end well for a change.’ She pulled over her keyboard and pecked away at it with a couple of fingers. ‘And please try to be on time tomorrow!’
‘Yes, Boss.’ He gathered up his coffee and let himself out, before she changed her mind.
All That's Dead Page 19
